


Dear Sherlock

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Coping, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Grief, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Post-Reichenbach, Tragedy, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John was happy. Too happy. Of course Sherlock preferred to see his friend in good spirits, especially after the cloud of depression that had hung over him the past weeks, but this was simply maddening." John's got a serious case of Christmas spirit, but is there something serious hidden behind it - something that surprises & saddens a self-proclaimed sociopath? Post-Fall/Reunion</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh Christmas Tree

"John, this ridiculous," Sherlock sighed as he shoved his gloved hands into his pockets almost petulantly.

"No one said you had to come," John huffed right back, an annoying smile smearing his face.

"When my flatmate is on a quest to bring a monstrosity such as this into our flat, then, yes, I need to be present."

"It's not a monstrosity," John rolled his eyes. "It's a Christmas tree."

Sherlock's face contorted at the name at the outrage's proper title as though a bee had stung him square on the nose.

"You  _do_  realize that it will  _never_  fit up the stairs," Sherlock calculatingly eyed the choices of the dreaded Christmas symbol that surrounded them.

"Yes it will," John almost sing-songed back.

John was happy. Too happy. Of course Sherlock preferred to see his friend in good spirits, especially after the cloud of depression that had hung over him the past few weeks, but this was simply maddening.

"You didn't mind Mrs. Hudson putting up decorations before," John pointed out as he tilted his head to examine a particular pine.

"It was  _tolerated_ ," Sherlock mumbled morosely, "and  _completely_  different. Even if you do manage to get it up the stairs, which I won't be helping you with, where do you purpose it go? Hmm?"

"We can move some of the furniture," John replied cheerfully.

" _You_ can move furniture," Sherlock corrected. "And not my chair, or the couch - or my violin stand."

"I can move the table and the tree can go right between the windows," John supplied swiftly.

"But I use that desk to work on the computer for cases," Sherlock was nearly whining now.

"No, you use that desk to work on  _my_ computer," John corrected. "Besides, I use the table more than you.  _You_ can't sit still for more than ten seconds when you're on a case, unless you're thinking, which you do while pacing or sitting in that bloody chair for hours on end without even flinching - which I won't move." He added at Sherlock's slacking jaw and sharpened glare. "You rarely use the laptop when not on a case, and almost anytime you need to, you make me do it anyway. I think we can both survive for a few weeks with the desk someplace else. It will still be in the flat."

Sherlock made a disapproving noise through his nose and decided to switch tactics.

"John, I hope you know that Christmas is a foolish and sentimental holiday that has evolved into little more than a time for disgusting greed and annoyingly dreadful films and specials on the telly."

"Well, glad you've got the spirit," John's sarcasm was dripping, but the grin lighting his features failed to even flicker from his face.

"You never wanted a tree before," Sherlock was suddenly curious. "Why this year? Why  _now_?"

Finally.

John's smile faltered. Sherlock's lips twitched upward in pride. When John made no notion of responding, Sherlock fixed his detective's eyes and brain on one John Watson.

"Leave it, Sherlock," John warned, feeling his friend's penetrating gaze and sensing the impending deduction.

"You've never made a fuss about Christmas before," Sherlock continued. "You obviously enjoy the holiday with the extra pound you gain and the way you fondly will glance out the window at night to look at the lights. Yet you yourself have never been one to initiate anything like this. Sure, that Christmas party our first year in the flat together was your unpleasant doing, but that was most obviously to please Mrs. Hudson, impress your then girlfriend and show Molly and Lestrade kindness as neither of them had anyone else to spend their holiday time with – and Lestrade's wife doesn't count. The gathering was for others, not you. And yet this year you've organized a party without provocation, already completed your holiday shopping three weeks ago, voluntarily helped Mrs. Hudson decorate, and are now insisting on keeping a filthy live tree in the middle of our flat. I'd say Christmas has gotten personal for you, John."

"Because a live tree is worse than the rubbish you fill the flat with with your bloody experiments."

John was trying to keep some of the sarcasm and nonchalance in his tone, but was failing miserably. For the self-proclaimed world's only consulting detective and observational genius, Sherlock Holmes was somehow completely unaware of John's skydiving mood. That, or he was simply ignoring it.

"My experiments are useful, purposeful," Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "What good is a Christmas tree for save a bad back and an eyesore?"

" _I'll_  be the one carrying it," John countered, "and you can go about the flat with your eyes closed for all I care."

John stopped suddenly, bringing his fingers up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose.

"You know what? You're right."

Sherlock would have been pleased with himself had John's features not turned so drastically dark.

"You are absolutely right," John nodded and then shook his head. "What am I doing? Sod this. Forget this. Forget Christmas. Just," he paused, shaking his head, "forget it."

Without saying anything more, John stalked off towards the road, his military career seeping into his suddenly straightened posture. Sherlock studied his friend as he left, taking in the stiff army man's back - and the once wounded man's lingering limp - before following him.

John's psychosomatic limp had not made an appearance since after Sherlock plummeted off the roof of St. Bart's. And it promptly disappeared when the detective had reemerged into the doctor's life. His always curious mind was spinning and pushing gears into motion, almost excited for the new challenge. But the other part of him - the part Sherlock oftentimes refused to admit he possessed - his heart, was feeling something else entirely at his friend's pain.

John was mentally cursing his blasted leg as he stormed off. Why did it have to choose now to rear its infuriating and embarrassing head? The ghost injury had returned when Sherlock - left. The lack of adventure, the lack of  _life_ , in John's existence seemed to spur it forward. Just as getting himself shot in Afghanistan had been horribly traumatic, so did watching his best friend take a dive off of a building. Whenever his mind would wander back to that day, to those images, the limp would readily resurface.

And he certainly couldn't help but be reminded of those memories now.

Not a single word was spoken as the pair made their way back to Baker Street. John nearly slammed the door in his flatmate's face as he entered and bounded up the steps.

Sherlock was tempted to say something about the limp and how it was clearly in his head if he could sprint of stairs so fast, but he was still trying to catch up – and run that thought through the John-filter he used when speaking his mind aloud.

By the time Sherlock reached their door, half of the decorations John and Mrs. Hudson had put up were scattered on the floor and all thoughts of the limp were promptly pushed away.

John savagely tore the garland off of the fireplace and ruefully ripped the lights from the mantle. He was heading for the muti-colored lit windows when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I don't think Mrs. Hudson will be pleased," the self-proclaimed sociopath called out cautiously.

"Oh," John threw his hands up, " _you_ thinking of someone else for a change! I'm  _shocked_. Look! It's  _your_ chair.  _Your_ couch.  _Your_ bloody violin stand.  _Your_ desk.  _Your_ damn flat. I thought you would like it. No holiday cheer. No fake smiles. No happy lights or ugly tree. No Christmas. We can all go back to being brooding and miserable, just the way you like it. I'll cancel the party too. Can't have a Christmas party without Christmas. No nog. No sweets. No unthinkable holiday rubbish on the telly. Nothing. Sounds perfectly lovely to me, how about you, Sherlock? Just the Christmas you'd want.  _No_ Christmas. No. Because people  _can't_ be happy. You said it yourself when we first met. That first case. You heard about the new murder and called it  _Christmas_. You were so damned excited about a woman being  _dead_. Should I go out and find a nice, good serial killer for you? Will that put you in the holiday spirit?"

"John -"

"Don't, Sherlock," John's rant was now over and his chest was practically heaving as he lifted a warning hand. "Just, don't."

John was already past his flatmate and out the door before Sherlock could process his friend's words and actions.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock whirled around and glared down the stairs.

"Out."

John didn't even spare him a glance before the doctor finished descending the steps and was outside.


	2. Letters to Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:A significantly longer chapter for you! I just couldn't find a good breaking point. This all was one scene and fit together to well. Let me know if this was a terrible idea and I should stay far far away from any further Sherlock fanfiction! Title is from the song title "Letters to Santa", just as the fic title is from the song title "Dear Santa".

The detective was left alone in the threshold, simply staring at the chaos before him. It wasn't merely Christmas decorations that spattered the floor. John had also left books scattered and papers strewn about in his wild wake. Normally, Sherlock would leave the mess for John or Mrs. Hudson, but even his Christmas calloused heart didn't desire for their landlady to see her holiday handiwork in ruins. And it wasn't likely John would return anytime soon to pick up his own destruction. So, rather reluctantly, Sherlock slowly began cleaning his friend's outburst.

A medical volume of text lay overturned in the middle of the room. Sherlock bent over and examined the expensive book. The good doctor was quite careful with his own possessions, especially anything that cost him a significant amount of money or was to do with his career. For John to have cast this aside without noticing told Sherlock that his friend was clearly far more upset than even the little explosion of emotions let on.

Sighing, Sherlock gathered a few of his flatmate's other things and carried them up to his blogger's bedroom. Rules of privacy were not something Sherlock paid attention to. He had entered John's room on several occasions without permission or knocking. John had actually, technically, never been home when he did this and therefore was unaware and unable to correct the behavior.

John would surely notice it now. Even he wasn't blind enough to miss the new stack of books and belongings perched precariously on the edge of his own bed.

The detective turned towards the door and was about to leave when something caught his ever wandering eye. One of John's desk drawers was wedged just slightly ajar. Despite his earlier outburst downstairs, John Watson was a man of order. Whether it was from military training or a strict upbringing - and Sherlock deduced it was both - John was always a meticulously organized and clean individual. He wasn't obsessive over it and therefore endured Sherlock's controlled chaos most of the time. But in his own private space, John's cleanly compulsion cried out for all to see. Even something as seemingly trivial as an open drawer was as vivid and out of place as a splash of color on a black and white photograph. Against the backdrop of a military style made bed, plain cream colored bed sheets, spotless floor, and beige walls devoid of any decor, the one flaw was more than enough to draw the detective's attention.

He crossed the room in one long stride and peered into the drawer. Inside, Sherlock could see scraps and clumps of paper - his name screaming at him off the parchment.

Stealing a glance at the door as if to confirm John's absence, Sherlock dropped himself into the chair and slipped the drawer open. Reaching in with a slender hand, he cleared its contents, emptying it into a pile before him. Each piece of paper was crumpled or torn up, some decorated with dark lines through the text.

Sherlock was about to shut the drawer when a box caught his attention. It had been hidden under the papers - and was labeled in perfect doctor-John scrawl with "SH". As if lifting glass, Sherlock plucked the container from its home. The thin layer of dust coating the item told Sherlock the box itself hadn't been touched in months. And yet the drawer had been sitting open for some time.

Pushing the mountain of paper aside, Sherlock carefully opened the box. With delicate fingers, Sherlock lifted a stack of letters, all addressed to him.

He flipped to the oldest date. Three weeks after his death.

_Sherlock,_

_My therapist thinks I need to keep up with that bloody blog now that you're \dead\gone._

Sherlock scoffed.

_I can almost hear you scoffing and telling me exactly what I can say to her. Mycroft would have me fire here - again. Even I'm not that stupid to know that won't do me any good. How could I write on there? The blog became our blog. It was always about you. Never me. Sure, there were bits of me, but it was about you. She had told me to start a blog about what happens to me. At first, absolutely nothing happened to me, ever. And then you. You happened to me. So I wrote about you. Our cases. Your cases. My life was your life. I had nothing after Afghanistan. And now I have nothing again. I feel like I am nothing. No one._

_Listen to me, getting emotional like this. I can just right imagine what you would say._

_So, anyway, I won't be writing in the blog._

_But I'm still supposed to write something. A diary? 'Today I bought milk.' 'Today I was turned down for another job.' I don't need you to tell me how boring that is._

_So, I guess this is what I'm going to do now._

_Write to you._

_Yes, sentiment._

_Deal with it._

_Not that you would stand to listen to me blab about my problems or feelings if you were here, but you're not. So this is all I have._

_Maybe I'm sentimental. Maybe I'm foolish. Maybe I'm a nutter._

_I don't care._

_If this is what it takes to keep myself alive, to keep you alive, then alight. I'll pour my bleeding heart onto paper to a ghost. At least now you can't critique my writing._

Sherlock sat back in the chair, his fingers absentmindedly caressing the parchment.

John had written to him. Confided in him. Even when he wasn't there, John had looked to him for guidance, for comfort.

Before dreaded feelings could creep up on him, Sherlock paged to the next letter, dated not a day later.

_Sherlock,_

_Today was a Not Good day._

That was all it said and Sherlock wondered if John had left it vague knowing that Sherlock either wouldn't listen to anything more, or wouldn't need anything else to deduce every detail of his friend's bad day.

_Sherlock,_

_You're a right foul git, you know that?_

Sherlock stiffened in the chair, tensing for the upcoming written blows he had been expecting.

_Today a woman at the park was shouting at her kid. I mean, really, screaming, Sherlock. Poor girl was in tears. I walked up to them and told the mother something I thought only you would ever say. I could tell she was cheating on her husband and on her way to an early grave with lung cancer from how many packs she smoked a day. (And you thought breathing is boring.) I also could see that she hit that poor little girl almost as much as she picked up a cig._

_Well, I told her all of this and got a square punch in the jaw from her on-the-side boyfriend who was apparently standing behind me the whole time. (Bet you'd have noticed that.) What she was doing with her kid, and her secret lover, in public, I have no clue. I'm sure you would have thought of something clever._

_I wrestled the bastard to the ground and now the girl is being sent to live with her aunt and uncle after Lestrade pulled some strings that weren't in his division for me. Turns out the dad was just as bad a bloke as the mum. A drunk and abusive. Course, you would have probably picked that up from one glance at the girl's ponytail or the way the mother carried her purse or something ridiculous and incredible._

_Lestrade phoned later to congratulate me._

_He also said something that I think just might terrify me._

_"You're turning into Sherlock."_

_And that's why you're a right foul git._

_Even when you're gone, you're making my life miserable._

Sherlock actually smiled at his friend's humor. Others might have thought John to be truly angry, but Sherlock could easily see through the man's sarcasm. He was also relieved that the note had neglected to carry the hate-filled speech he had been expecting.

There was a letter for nearly every day. Sometimes they were simple sentences. Many were littered with John's dry humor.  _A coping mechanism, no doubt._ There were amusing anecdotes he knew Sherlock would enjoy. Sometimes he even added detailed descriptions of current cases that he would spot on the news or hear from Lestrade over a pint on Friday evenings. But then, there were others. The doctor's darker days. And these were the letters that made Sherlock's non-heart crack.

_Sherlock,_

_I hate you. Sometimes, I really do._

_A woman was brought into the A &E I've been working at today. A jumper. Suicide. She lost her three children in a fire. Her husband died a year ago in Afghanistan._

_I wonder if I ever met the poor sod._

_Not three hours later, a man was brought in after trying to overdose. The bastard had bankrupted his business, lost the jobs of all his employees and then gone home to beat his wife to death._

_He survived._

_He got to live and she didn't._

_You didn't._

_Why?_

_Why did you have to jump? To die?_

_Why couldn't you let me help you? To come up to the roof with you?_

_To jump with you._

_I won't be showing this letter to my therapist._

_Sherlock,_

_Henry called today._

_He said he had watched someone close to him die so he wanted to let me know I could talk to him._

_He's wrong._

_I can't talk to him._

_I can't talk to anyone._

_Only you._

_Sherlock,_

_I made toast today and went back to bed._

_I forgot the toast downstairs._

_I think it's still on the table._

_I don't care._

_I'm never hungry anymore anyway._

_Sherlock,_

_I've missed three days of work in a row. If I miss another without calling and a good enough excuse, I will be fired._

_Sherlock,_

_I've been fired._

_Sherlock,_

_I don't answer Harry or Mike or Greg's phone calls anymore._

_Mrs. Hudson stopped trying to get me to open the door finally._

_Sherlock,_

_My therapist says that if I don't start showing up for sessions and showing her my letters, she will be forced to take action. Action? What action? What can she do to me? I'm already broken. Will she give me more useless advice?_

_Sherlock,_

_She took action. She called the hospital. She knows I got fired._

_So I fired her._

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know why everything has gotten so hard these past few days. I didn't tell you, but my bloody hand has been shaking again. Of course, you've probably already deduced that. Sometimes I can feel that old pain in my leg. I don't know what I will do if that blasted limp comes back._

_Sherlock,_

_It came back._

Sherlock scanned the dates. There were no more letters for a good solid two weeks.

Christmastime.

John didn't write again until January 10th.

_Sherlock,_

_I have a confession to make. You're not going to like it, but I didn't like it when I watched you jump off a building, so tough._

_December 25th, Christmas day, I tried to kill myself._

_Go ahead, tell me how stupid and pathetic I am._

_I hate to tell you that it wasn't anything dramatic or exciting. You'd call it dull._

_I shot myself in the head._

_Well, not technically._

_I did squeeze the trigger._

_I went to_ the _rooftop, you know. I didn't want Mrs. Hudson finding me like that._

_Turns out Lestrade is a lot cleverer than you ever gave him credit for. The sneaky bastard came to the flat the week before Christmas to check on me. He does that. I hate it, but on some level, I look forward to it. I won't answer his calls or meet him at the pub. But I'll at least let him in the door. I called him on Christmas. After. I needed to tell someone._

_He told me he thought I looked like a man on the edge when he stopped by and stole the bullets out of my gun while I was fixing tea._

_I'll have to remember to thank the bastard._

_Not right now. Not yet._

_Right now I still want to be mad._

_But at least I'm alive to be able to be mad._

Sherlock straightened slowly and reread the entire letter twice before putting it down with trembling hands.

John had tried to kill himself.

John Watson.

Strong soldier. Daring doctor. Brave blogger.

And fierce friend.

Some people might not have thought that when they first looked at the shorter man, especially right after the war. The limp and tremor weren't weaknesses. They were battle wounds. Scars. And they had healed. He had survived what Sherlock deduced from early on as a broken and bitter childhood. He supported himself. He never asked for help. He watched his sister drown in the drink and never stopped trying to save her. He had possessed the skills of a top paying surgeon and had instead chosen to get bullets thrown at him instead of money. He was shot in action and somehow managed to survive in the midst of a firefight with a bullet lodged in his shoulder – and still save several of his comrades. He stood up Mycroft when he thought he was, in John's own words, a "criminal mastermind". He didn't hesitate or flinch when he killed the cabbie. He didn't back down when anyone, including Sherlock, pushed him. He was strapped to a bomb and still offered his own life to save Sherlock's. In one single solitary nod of his head, his features staying firm, he had agreed with Sherlock in shooting the bomb. He had known it was better for all three of them to die, than for Moriarty to live at all.

He didn't run away from Sherlock and his crazy, impossible life after that scare. Instead, he continued to run with him, to chase down London's most dangerous criminals without a second thought against it. No matter what pain he was in or what fear he felt, he always put others before himself. He accompanied Sherlock on back to back cases and then spent the night working a shift simply because somebody somewhere was suffering and he could help.

John was the strongest man Sherlock Holmes had ever met. He could never imagine his friend so weak, so broken.

And it was his fault.

Where his family, the war and Moriarty failed, Sherlock succeeded.

He tried to imagine coming home from the dead, only to discover his flatmate had killed himself while he was gone. Sherlock was almost certain that he would not have remained revived for long. He would have ended his own life too, for good this time.

There was another string of letter less days and Sherlock found himself growing irrationally worried. Of course John hadn't tried it again and taken his life. He was alive and well.

The next message was dated two months later.

_Sherlock,_

_It's been hard finding the words and courage to write to you. I'm too ashamed of what I did. What I almost did._

_I'm not going to be this person anymore._

_I promise._

_I'm going to live, for you._

The next entry was in April.

_Sherlock,_

_I updated the blog. Just a few words and some pictures. I might add some old cases later. It took me twenty minutes just to log on and then a whole week to write the first post. But, as my therapist (Yes, I went back - after Christmas) would say, it's progress._

Another two months later.

_Sherlock,_

_I don't need to write to you every day anymore. Sometimes, though, like today, I want to. It doesn't make me sad anymore most of the time. And I think that's Good._

_I'm okay when I say that I miss you._

_I don't break down anymore when I visit your grave._

_And I'm not embarrassed when I write to you, even if I know how you'd roll your eyes with every sentimental word._

Sherlock stayed his hand and eyes for a moment before he began the next letter.

It was dated three months ago. The exact date Sherlock Holmes literally walked back into John Watson's life.

_Sherlock,_

_You're back._

_You're alive._

_Not dead. Not dead. Not dead._

_How many times have I repeated that in my head today? And still I can't believe it. I'm waiting to wake up tomorrow and find this was all a dream. That's why I'm writing this. To see if it's still here in the morning._

_To see if you're still here._

September 22nd, the following day.

_You're still here,_

September 23rd.

_Still here. Not crazy. Not dead._

September 23rd.

_Sorry about the broken nose._

September 23rd.

_No, I'm not sorry. You lying bastard. How could you do this to me? To Mrs. Hudson? Molly? Lestrade? Hell, even Mycroft? I'm so angry and happy and confused. Never thought I'd be glad to be angry at you. Because I am furious. I am. But you're alive and I can be mad at you. And that makes me happy._

September 26th.

_You finally told me how you did it. Well, I guess I have to take Molly off my list in that last letter. I tried to be mad at her too but I'm having trouble being angry at all anymore._

There were no more letters after that in the box and Sherlock placed the stack gently back in its home. His hand hovered over the cover, fingers lingering on the parchment on which John had poured out his very soul. They weren't the never ending and gushing diary entries of a schoolgirl. They weren't overly long or descriptive or sometimes even a full sentence. But they were perfectly and 100 percent, John Watson.

Sherlock knew he had caused his friend great grief, but John had worn a mask mostly when the detective came back. They didn't talk about the time he was gone and Sherlock never asked.

Of course he had kept tabs on John in his absence. Yet somehow even his data and deductions and surveillance had missed so much.

Sherlock had missed so much.

Gingerly, as if holding a piece of John himself, Sherlock slipped the box back into the drawer.

His hands - definitely  _not_ shaking - reached for the crumpled balls of paper.

_Sherlock,_

_~~Christmas is soon~~ Chrismas is_

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know where to start but_

_Sherlock,_

_This is so much harder than I thought_

_Sherlock,_

~~_I just want to tell you much I_ ~~

_Sherlock,_

_I know perfectly well how you feel about sentiment. I know we would never have this conversation in person. But there are things I need you to know. Things I need to tell you, but can't say._

_While you were away, my therapist had me write letters, to you._

Sherlock's fingertips tightened along the edges of the parchment. This wasn't another letter to a ghost. John was actually writing to  _him_.

_I thought it was ridiculous and that she was completely barmy at first. But it helped. Writing to you, talking to you, was the only thing that kept me sane._

_It's the only thing that kept me alive._

_Well, that, and Lestrade secretely removing the bullets from my gun. I still haven't thanked him properly._

_Yes, Sherlock, I tried to kill myself. If you've gone through my things, as I suspect you have, since coming back you'll have found all the letters and know all about it._

_Or maybe you could deduce it the first day we saw each other again._

_I don't really care. I still need to tell you._

_Last Christmas, I put my gun to my head and pulled the trigger. I wanted to be dead. I stopped caring, about everything. Yes, caring, Sherlock. Feelings. Emotions. Those things you have, but deny their existence._

_Trust me, their important. Don't ever ignore them. Don't shut them out, because I know you sometimes do._

_I did._

_And then I tried to put a bullet in my brain._

_It was awhile before I could write you again after that. To tell you. I was so ashamed._

_I'm not anymore._

_I can tell you now. Really tell you. Not just the sentimental ghost Sherlock I wrote to for months._

_It's Christmas Sherlock. Grant me this small sentiment._

_Lestrade might have removed the bullets, but you stopped me from putting them back in and giving it a second go._

_I've told you this before, but that was again to another not-real you. To your headstone, in fact. And if you think I'm mad after reading this because I talked to a grave, well then, I guess now we're both properly insane._

_This is what I said, and if you laugh I will punch you again._

_You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't think you were human. But let me tell you this. You were, and are, the best man, the most human human being that I know. No one ever convinced me that you lied._

_Sherlock, I was so alone, both before I met you and then after you were gone. I owe you so much._

_I asked you that day to do a miracle for me. To not be dead._

_And you weren't._

_As foolishly sentimental as it sounds, I don't need a Christmas gift from you, not that you'd ever remember to get one._

_I got my gift._

_My miracle._

_Thank you, Sherlock._

_Merry Christmas._


	3. Home for Christmas

John wasn't quite sure where he was going. He just kept walking, and walking. It didn't matter it was snowing. It didn't matter that his leg was beginning to pulse and burn with phantom pain.

Nothing mattered.

No, that wasn't true. Not anymore.

Things mattered again.

Sherlock was back. Sherlock mattered.

And yet the doctor could feel the old familiar black blanket of that never quite dissipated depression curling around him. Instead of warming him though, it wrapped him in an unearthly cold.

His memory unwilling was pulled back to 365 days ago.

He could feel the cold metal in his hand as if it was there again. But it wasn't.

John's gun was tucked away snugly in the small of his back, nestled in his waistband.

The blogger never left home without it now. Not after being twice kidnapped. Not after Moriarty. Not after everything. He always carried it when he went out while Sherlock was away - not dead - away. Sometimes he still had to remind himself. Sometimes, he still didn't believe it. The gun had given him an odd sense of comfort in those long lonely days. When Sherlock was around, John would bring it on cases. The familiarity of the weapon was welcomed after Sherlock was gone. He could pretend he was on another criminal chase, just momentarily separated from the detective.

He wasn't exactly sure how he got there or how long he had been standing on the side of the street before he realized where he was.

Weary eyes drew upwards, resting on the all too familiar rooftop of St. Bartholomew's. Where Sherlock fell. Where John pulled the trigger. Where everything changed.

The building held so many terrible and painful memories for John; the man had a small secret urge to burn the place to the ground.

But then the good memories would be lost in the rubble too.

Going to school. Befriending Mike Stamford. Sneaking a kiss between classes with the beautiful Lacy Trammel. Stealing something much more intimate in the third floor cleaning closet.

Meeting Sherlock.

Meeting Molly. Watching Sherlock work. Laughing with Sherlock until John scolded himself and the detective for giggling and joking in a morgue.

The jovial memories helped to soften John's sour and sorrowful mood towards the detective. So much so that the blogger decided he was finally ready to go home and face him. Maybe even explain.

How could he honestly be angry at Sherlock for not understanding John's want - no, need - for a proper Christmas if he didn't know the past? He had worked so hard to write Sherlock a letter for Christmas that would say everything in writing that John couldn't speak aloud. Weeks he had spent scribbling away at the desk.

And here it was, Christmas Eve, and still he hadn't finished one.

How could he expect Sherlock to deal with it when John himself had yet to come to terms with all the events of the past 19 months?

He had thrown himself in the Christmas spirit, hoping it would banish all memories of the previous holiday's events. Of course he'd been obsessing. Of course Sherlock would notice and question his flatmate's new behavior and interest. He was trying so very much to have a normal, perfect, Sherlock-included, Christmas.

Of course, those three words seriously failed to fit together in any possible juncture. There was no normal when it came to Sherlock Holmes and no one ever was granted the perfect Christmas.

It had been foolish.

He had been foolish.

 _Sentiment_.

John heard the word distastefully hiss in his brain in that unforgettable baritone.

With a resolved sigh, the former soldier pulled his hard gaze away from the roof and, with military precision, turned and began to almost march back towards home.

The sun had long since bid its farewell to the day by the time John trudged up the steps of 221B Baker Street. He had taken the long route home, even though on foot. He may have decided to return home, but that didn't mean he hadn't wanted time to think some more.

His head and heart were heavy as he twisted the doorknob and began ascending the staircase. There was an odd aroma permeating from behind their door and John idly wondered what new experiment Sherlock had cooked up in his absence.

Pushing the door open, John Watson found himself frozen in the threshold.

He had had his fair share of surprises in his lifetime. Coming home from school to find Harry snogging a girl on their couch. His 21st birthday party. Getting shot. Meeting Sherlock. Being kidnapped. Anything involving Moriarty.

And yet, this seemed to top almost all of those.

Well, except Sherlock's death and resurrection.

But this came even close to that.

The flat was practically glowing. White lights wrapped with golden garland garnished the fireplace. Greenery was draped loosely from the mirror above the mantle, lights drooping just below it. The bookshelves were lined with red strings of lights as candy canes hung from the wiring. Tinsel lined the doorways with more multi-colored lights popping up in the kitchen and on the wall above the couch. A Santa hat was perched on the back of Sherlock's chair - which was most definitely not in his usual spot. In fact, none of the furniture was. The coffee table was completely missing, along with the bookshelf that usually stood next to the couch. The table had been pushed over in front of the window nearest the fireplace.

And there, in front of the other window, stood a fully decorated, live, Christmas tree.

The two chairs remained near the fireplace, but were now closer to the couch and angled in a circle, yet slightly pointed toward the tree.

The aroma that had caught his senses earlier was now revealed to be a bowl of cinnamon scented pine cones that acted as a centerpiece for the table - all books and papers cleared away. Mixing with the strong scent sat next to the bowl a plate of perfectly decorated cookies. Other sweets and snacks lined the table as well.

John almost laughed when he noticed one of his own Christmas jumpers folded neatly and waiting for him on his chair.

He finished taking in the scene and swallowing down tears when, as if on cue, a certain flatmate strolled far too casually into the Christmas card-like scene from his bedroom. His clothing was different from earlier. Only John would have noticed the subtle difference. Sherlock was dressed for company.

"Sherlock," John fumbled for words, his eyes still flickering over the flat's decor. "What - what's going on?"

"You should know," Sherlock sighed, as if the flat  _wasn't_ suddenly spewing Christmas spirit. "You're the one that arranged this little party."

"But I also  _cancelled_ it," John stuttered. "Were you not listening before? I - I called everyone after I left."

"And then  _I_ called them and  _un_ -cancelled it," Sherlock spoke smugly.

"Sherlock - what is all this?" John gestured toward the explosion of Christmas decorations. "Did Mrs. Hudson -"

"Baked the cookies," Sherlock supplied. "And all the food."

"So, who decorated?" John questioned, a tad confused and hesitant, already knowing the impossible answer.

"I'd expect even your mind to be able to deduce  _that_ ," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Suddenly, the detective's features faltered and John was reminded of when he told the man he had found his website when they first met.

_"What did you think?"_

_John's face turned skeptical and Sherlock's own features sagged._

"You don't like it," Sherlock spoke with shielded emotion.

"No, no," John hurried to correct his friend's assumption before the man started tearing it all down in a huff. "I - I - it's fantastic. Really. I - love it."

A ghost of a genuine grin twitched against Sherlock's lips. Even John could see the self-proclaimed sociopath's eyes smiling.

"How's your back?" John chuckled, glancing at the fir.

"Dreadful," Sherlock droned dramatically.

"You didn't carry it up the stairs," John stated simply.

"Paid a man to deliver and bring it up," Sherlock admitted with another small smile.

"The decorating?" John prompted, his own lips turning upward, laugh lines crinkling his face.

"Hmm? Oh, that. Yes. That was me." Sherlock was acting apathetic, but John could see something else skimming the surface – embarrassment?

"They took lovely," John praised. "Really, Sherlock. The whole place looks incredible."

Their eyes locked for a long moment and some unspoken conversation lingered between the pair.

"Thank you," John swallowed emotions as he spoke.

The detective disappeared into the kitchen without a word and reappeared a moment later with two cups.

"Tea?" Sherlock's mouth was pointing north again.

"Ta," John happily took the offered drink from his friend, not questioning how his flatmate had it ready for the exact time John returned.

He was about to say something borderline sentimental when there came a tapping at the door.

"Yoo hoo!" A familiar sing-song voice greeted them as the door swung open.

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a flourish and a wide stretching smile.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," John wrapped his free arm around the woman as she came at him for a hug. "Thank you. The food looks great."

"Well, I know you boys," she clicked her tongue. "You can't just serve your guests tea and toes, you know."

Her teasing even made Sherlock seem to brighten, even if he didn't show it.

"Oh,  _Sherlock_. Look at this. It's absolutely lovely, dear. Looks like someone's finally getting into the Christmas spirit. Maybe I won't have to twist your arm this year for you to play us a song or two."

"Two  _is_ the limit, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock nodded. "An extra number this year for your capable cooking hands."

"Did I hear something about food?"

The trio turned to find Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade shedding his hat and coat in the hallway.

"Detective Inspector, really, you know eating out of depression really is not healthy," Sherlock sighed.

"Save it, Sherlock," Greg snubbed the consulting detective smugly. "I kicked  _her_ out. This time for good."

"Good for you," Sherlock offered the man an approving bow of his head, barely restraining himself from adding  _"It's about time"_ and receiving a reproachful look from his personal moral compass of a flatmate.

"I'm sorry Greg," John shot a sharp glance at his flatmate and then turned a sympathetic eye toward his friend.

"You poor thing," Mrs. Hudson was now fussing over the snow on Lestrade's coat before hanging it over a chair and placing a consoling hand on the man's arm.

"Nah," Lestrade shrugged. "Don't feel sorry for me. It was about time."

Sherlock internally grinned arrogantly.

"Indeed," the consulting detective huffed. "Long overdue, if you ask me."

"Well, nobody did," Greg shot back readily, but with a laugh tacked on at the end.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!"

Molly bustled through the door with packages in her arms and a smile spread across her rosy lips. The time, Sherlock didn't even glance at the presents. No deductive or cruel comment was on his tongue.

His attitude toward the woman had changed considerably since she had helped him with his "death".

The little family gathered amongst the couch and chairs while John retrieved drinks for himself and Greg. Mrs. Hudson poured herself and Molly each a glass of wine. They were all seated and chatting away when Sherlock took up his violin.

The sentiment behind Sherlock's rendition of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" wasn't lost on the doctor. Even he was shocked at the sappiness that somehow dripped from Sherlock and his instrument. The two friends would never admit to anyone, even to each other, the significance of the song just then.

It was only after Sherlock's variation of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" that John stood from his chair with the excuse of needing another beer.

He wasn't surprised when his flatmate followed him into the kitchen.

They exchanged another wordless conversation.

 _"You didn't have to do this."_ John's face was somewhere between a frown and an appreciative smile.

 _"Yes, I did. Don't be daft."_ Sherlock glanced away casually, but not before locking his friend with a serious glace.

 _"But why?"_ John retrieved his beer and placed it on the counter.

 _"For you, John."_ Sherlock was looking at John again with eyes that could piece the doctor's mind.  _"Always for you. I died for you. I came back for you. I'll endure painfully boring and sentimental holiday traditions, for you."_

_"You can be a right awful git, but you're my best friend. Thank you."_

_"You're welcome."_

"Merry Christmas, John."

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, the whole "I'll Be Home for Christmas" bit was the cheesiest of cheesiness and I went back and forth about deleting it, but, what can I say? Sentiment.


End file.
